


Identity Theft

by JetPropulsionLaboratory



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25936861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JetPropulsionLaboratory/pseuds/JetPropulsionLaboratory
Summary: Somewhere, buried among Gertrude's mountains of statements and reference materials, lies a police report.Spoiler-free.
Kudos: 8





	Identity Theft

Case number: 0104-122017

Transcript of an interview of an unknown subject reporting a case of identity fraud. 

Retrieved from Chiswick Police Station upon closure; December 2017.

Original recording dated: June 17th, 2015

Interviewing officer: PCSO Daniel Murphy

* * *

Transcript begins

* * *

Murphy: If you could state your name and date of birth for the tape sir

Unknown: *Sigh* … of course, I am *unintelligible*, born *unintelligible*

Murphy: Thank you. I know cases of identity theft can be frustrating, but we are here to help Ms. Richards. A fully documented report of this crime from you can only help in the event of a prosecution against Mr… *ruffling of papers* Doe?

Unknown: I’m not sure that’s even his real name; he just called himself that the one time I met him. Or rather, that’s what the waiter called him afterwards. 

Murphy: Ok, let’s begin there, Mr. Taylor –

Unknown: *Exasperated sigh* … Sorry, it’s… sorry. It’s not your fault, this situation is just very… frustrating, like you said.

Murphy: And you have my sympathies. If you could please recount the event of your meeting with Mr. Doe, I think that would be the best place to begin.

Unknown: Sure. 

It was at a coffee shop, Artisanal. Not the kind of shop, I mean, that’s the _actual_ name of the place, just up the road from here. It was back in February, I don’t remember the exact date or time, it was a bit after valentines, sometime around three? I don’t know- I…

I lost my job. Just after the new year. It wasn’t much, basically stacking shelves in Tesco, but it was enough for me to afford a room and food and a couple luxuries every now and then. I was living month to month, sure, but at least I wasn’t running into the red.

When it came, the redundancy wasn’t a shock. Not even surprising I guess; I was on the bottom rung of the ladder and I wasn’t that good at my job anyway. I wasn’t bad either really, but when I heard my manager describe me as “unambitious” I should’ve known I wasn’t going to be around for that long. 

I hadn’t even been employed long enough to get any more than a week’s notice and with no other employment options jumping out at me and a room that ate more than a quarter of my salary… Yeah. The only foresight I seem to have had about my situation was to get a housing contract that could be terminated at short notice.

My dad, here in London, helped me move back in. I love him to bits, really, he’s been as supportive of me throughout my life as anyone could be, but I could tell he wasn’t surprised either. I guess after having to swoop in and pick up after your kid’s failures enough times you’re just… ready for the next one.

Anyway, one of the only stipulations of living with him was that I see a therapist. He said that he’d always been worried, that he’d wanted to say something for years, but I’d always _just_ scraped by until now. I’d gotten through my A-levels and a degree by the skin of my teeth but now I’d flunked out of a minimum wage job with no backup plan so, in his words, it was “clear I didn’t have a grasp on my life”. 

I remember swearing at him a lot after that, screaming and shouting the place down. It wasn’t that I thought he was wrong, it just… felt better than sitting there and agreeing with him.

Murphy: ...I’m sorry that you’ve gone through… that. But, could we return to your meeting with Mr. Doe?

Unknown: Yeah… sorry, it’s just… I haven’t had much opportunity to talk about… all of it.

Murphy: And I am truly sorry, but this is a Victim Statement and it would be best if we could stick to the crime in question Mr. Smith.

Unknown: … *Loud Exhale* Of… course.

So, while I waited for the gears of therapy to get going, I found myself with a lot of time on my hands and, with no job to fill the hours, I took to wandering the local area. Parks, the river, mostly places I didn’t have to spend much money at or to get to. I have, however, always had a weakness for good coffee. So, one afternoon in February I found myself in that coffee shop and at a time it was pretty much empty. Except for a couple baristas and… him.

He was dressed like he was ready for a hike, and it all looked high-end stuff: down coat and heavy trousers, thick boots and a massive backpack that looked to be stuffed full. He was sitting at a small table near the door and it looked like he’d been eating quite an amount of food from the empty plates and trays in front of him. 

Of course, I didn’t pay much attention to him initially: in London you see way weirder stuff that’s not worth bothering a second thought about. I placed my order and took a window seat near the corner of the shop.

What I did notice while I sat and sipped was that the woman at the counter came round to his table, delivering more food and drinks while starting up conversation. It was just idle chatting, but she spoke as if the two were… familiar. Bringing up her family and asking after his; her job, his job you know the sort of stuff. But his responses were very clipped and quiet: sticking to one-word answers like he was uncomfortable with being engaged by her, though aside from the occasional yes or no I didn’t actually hear much of his side.

I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop you know; it was just idle people watching. And to be honest, the weird half-conversation the two were having was better listening than the god-awful airy pop music that was being pumped through the place. Anyway, after the server left to go back to the till, I just returned to my thoughts and kind of... zoned out for ten - maybe twenty – minutes. 

I’d been flicking through my phone when a huge crowd of people came into the place. We were a stone’s throw from the tube, so it’d have been the first wave of the after-work-ers. As soon as the first ones came through, the man rushed from his seat and got his stuff to leave, slinging the heavy pack onto his shoulders. It made a loud enough noise that I turned to look directly at him, and though I could only see his side from where I sat I could tell he was…panicked: full-on deer in the headlights shaking panic. He obviously wanted to get out of there but already the que had formed up and to and was now crowding the only door and was quickly looking to absorb his seat. 

So instead he started moving from table to table; staying as isolated as possible as the place kept filling up. And of course; the last seat he took, wedged into the furthest corner away from the crowded till and door, was next to me. When he sat I could see he’d turned up the hood of his coat and was curling into himself, I think to avoid letting people see his face, and I could hear his breathing coming out fast and shallow.

I felt bad for him, I mean, who in this age doesn’t have some sort of anxiety? God knows I’ve been there, and here’s this guy having a full-on panic attack and everyone’s too busy getting some bougie after work pastries to notice. So, I tried to remember what I’ve been told helps:

“Just get your breathing under control.” I said. Didn’t look at him directly, that seemed to be a likely trigger, and I would’ve tried to get him to focus on the crappy music but that was being drowned out by all the yammering. So, I kept talking in a calm, measured way to give something grounding to work with.

“Keep a count of five as you breathe in and out” “Focus on the smell of the coffee,” Just stuff like that to calm him down. It seemed to be helping; his breathing slowed, and I could see his shaking and that nervous energy dying down as I kept talking.

I ran out of basic techniques to pull out of my ass pretty quickly, so I just tried rambling on and on. “My name is” … “I’m new to London.” … “This is my first time here when it’s so busy.”

I can’t tell exactly when my train-of-consciousness rambling started to shift tracks. I remember saying “I lost my job about a month ago, I’ve moved back in with family.” I guess at some point it stopped being about helping a stranger calm down and I was just venting at a captive audience. 

I went on and on about myself, I told him everything I’ve said before about my shitty life, but it just didn’t _stop_ . I told him of failed relationships, how I barely speak to my mother and why that is and on and on It kept pouring out of me, all this really personal stuff, about my family, growing up, uni and so.. so much other stuff I’ve _never_ told anyone before in my life. It was like a trance, and the world just seemed to fall away until it was just me, spilling my guts, and him, silently listening.

I’m not sure how long it went on. It was only when the streetlights kicked on through the window that I snapped back to myself. I looked around to see that the café was now empty again. I had to blink a few times to bring the surroundings into focus and I realised I’d been crying; a small pool of tears was darkening the wooden table under me. 

Then I turned to look at him.

He was staring right at me. The trimmed hood of his coat was still up so I couldn’t make out all the details of his face in the evening light. 

No. That wasn’t it.

His hair poked out enough to see it was shaggy, and a few strands were turning white I think, that I remember, but when I try to recall any other specifics; the colour of his eyes, the shape of his mouth, it’s just… indistinct. He had all the parts of a face, all the anatomical structures, and they fit together to make a whole but when I try to put it together in my mind… the details just seem to wander off. Like a Rubik’s cube where as soon as you try to get a second face right, you mess up the first.

His expression I _do_ remember. He looked so… satisfied. Eyes closed for a moment, taking a long exhale as if all the food he’d had before was nothing. As if all the secrets of my soul were just a well-cooked meal.

It was at that moment the idea entered my head that I’d done something _very_ wrong.

We looked at each other for a long moment. I was frozen still as I saw the look of satisfaction slowly faded away to be replaced by … abject pity. And then he said the only words I’d ever clearly heard from him.

“Thank you. I am sorry.” 

The voice that came from him was unnatural. The accent was so neutral, the intonation so flat and the spaces between the words were just slightly off. It was as if someone learnt English from a text-to-speech device.

And then he put his backpack on and left.

I stayed in that coffee shop until it closed. 

I should’ve run after him, chased him down and screamed at him to tell me what the hell he was but I was too scared to move, too scared to think about what had just happened, even though I didn’t understand and I thought that if I refused to acknowledge it all it would all just…

When the server from earlier came round to politely tell me to leave I asked her about the man I’d been talking with. She seemed confused at first, as if she didn’t know what I was talking about, but I’d _seen_ her talk with him a few hours ago. I thought they had to be friends or at least regular acquaintances. She kept trying to tell me she wasn’t sure who I was talking about; yes, she remembered a person wearing those clothes and me talking to them for a couple hours, but she’d never seen _either_ of us before.

As I kept insisting, this look came over her face; like she suddenly knew what I was talking about, but the memory had only just drifted to the front of her mind. 

“John Doe.” She said his name was, but she said more like a question, like she still wasn’t sure about it and out loud, we could both feel how fake that name sounded.

I didn’t want to leave, but nothing else to do and since I couldn’t just sit there, I headed home. 

But already, _it_ started happening. My phone blew up with texts and emails after a few steps outside. Dozens of spams sure, but even more personal messages; all from names I didn’t recognize and all _to_ names I didn’t recognize. I barely got to see a few unconnected subject lines before the load was so heavy that my phone crashed to _factory settings_. Everything on it from music to photos and contact lists just… gone. 

I tried to get on a bus, even though it would’ve been less than ten minutes’ walk. I wanted to get home, to be safe, to talk to my dad about what had happened to me or just try to forget. But when I put my card on the reader the light turned red and the harsh beeping told me something was wrong there as well. I could’ve paid cash, but I already had a sinking suspicion and needed to confirm it. I went to the nearest cash machine and put my card in but even before I was prompted to enter my PIN the screen shone out: “Card not recognized”.

After that I did end up running home, not stopping till I’d locked the front door behind me, and I was curled up in a ball on the floor.

My dad came to the door less than a minute later. I was trying to get my breath back when I saw him.

There was a split second where I thought, maybe it was going to be okay but then he started shouting at me. He screamed at me to get out, said he was calling the police. I tried to tell him, explain who I was but I could see it on his face. He had no idea who the person in front of him was, and nothing I was saying was getting through to him. 

I ran. I went to the Southfields park and lay down on a bench and… wept. After a few hours, when it started to get really cold and dark, I thought I might go back, try to explain or…understand… somehow, but I’d dropped my keys when I’d opened the front door to flee and I didn’t think banging on the door in the dead of night was going to help my case. 

That was my first night of rough sleeping.

Since then I’ve been back to my house, but it’s clear my dad isn’t going to remember me; he’s even come out a couple times to threaten to call the police for stalking him. I’ve thought of getting in contact with other people, but I don’t have any other family or close friends in London I could just walk up to, even if they were to still think I’m… me. 

My phone took a knock that night and refused to work. When I tried to buy a cheap new mobile with the cash I had in my wallet it, as soon as the sim card was in and the power turned on a barrage of wrong numbers crashed it before I could make an outgoing call.

The worst part is… sometimes people _do_ recognise me. But never anyone I actually know. 

Every time someone looks at my face, there’s a chance I’ll see a spark of recognition. Sometimes I’m a friend, or work colleague. Sometimes I’m a family member; a son, a sister… a parent. Sometimes, when I play along, I can get a roof over my head and a decent meal in me; some cash in my pocket or something to pawn. 

It’s not good, I know that. I am lying and stealing from strangers, abusing their trust in a person who _doesn’t exist_ . But what else can I do? It’s not like I’m going to be able to get a job _now._

I learnt pretty quickly what “John Doe” must’ve: when I could I bought the best hard-wearing clothing, got a pack big enough to carry anything valuable I might come across. I can usually steal enough cash to avoid going hungry but without any banking I’m not going to be able to afford a roof over my head, so a good pair of boots and a sleeping bag are the closest thing to a home I’ve got now.

I tried hanging with other rough sleepers and going to shelters, but for the most part, I avoid other people, or at least their gaze. Unless I need something I can’t get myself, it’s not worth the mental effort and shame of keeping up with whatever fantasy’s going on in the other person’s head. Besides, it never seems to last more than a day or two; not long enough to slip into a new life. 

I’ve _definitely_ not had sex since this all started. God, no. I’ve been married… four? times now and been come onto by “my” girl or boyfriend more than double that. 

*Laughter* Somehow the fact that I’m such an obvious homeless *unintelligible* doesn’t seem to put them off.

I could just pick some out of the way corner to lie down and die, but someone will find me. I can never get far away enough before some Londoner sees me and then I’ll be their runaway kid and they’ll take me home, get me clean and fed but after a few hours… I’m just another stranger to them.

Just like my dad.

Murphy: …Ok. Well, I’m not sure what we can do about… a lot of that, but there are avenues to explore with your bank and telephone provider, we could phone on your behalf if you’re having difficulties, Miss. Brown?

Unknown: Oh, fuck you.

Murphy: I’m sorry?

Unknown: I said: FUCK YOU! I’ve had enough! My name is *unintelligible* I miss my dad I need to TALK TO HIM I-

Murphy: *Rising from chair* Please sir-

Unknown: *Rising from chair* I’M *unintelligible*I’M *unintelligible* I’M *unintelligible*I’M –

* * *

Transcript Ends

* * *

Case Notes

From the original police reports: on the date of this recording PCOS Murphy was attacked during an interview. His injuries were relatively minor but did include a concussion. 

The assailant was able to escape the station before other members of the force were able to attend to the commotion. Internal CCTV shows Murphy and another person entering the interview room and approximately 25 minutes later -presumably- the same unknown person flees alone from the room and exits the station. There is significant corruption and artifacting on all recordings of the interviewee, rending identification impossible 

Upon questioning, Murphy was unable to provide a detailed description of his assailant, neither were the desk sergeant or indeed anyone who encountered the interviewee.

Some papers were retrieved from the interview room corresponding with a claim of identity fraud, though the claimant’s details are illegible and Murphy claims not to have a clear memory of events leading up to his attack, which he attributes to the concussion he suffered.

The police have since been unable to identify the attacker; fingerprint analysis of the interview room and other surfaces they are believed to have come into contact with have thrown up repeated false positives when run though police databases as have DNA analysis from samples extracted under Murphy’s fingernails that were left in the attack.

The coffee shop Artisan has had its staff and CCTV footage reviewed. On February 19th, 2015, form 2:47-6:00pm closing time, significant corruption occurs rendering the footage unhelpful in identifying individuals. Similarly, staff, while able to recall that two customers did remain until closing and that one matching the clothing description given in the interview left shortly before the other, no clear description of either party could be given. 

Upon review of the period from Feb 19th- June 17th, it was noticed that repeated calls were made from a Chiswick address reporting repeated stalking. When police made an in person call to the address, Mr. William Doe noted that he’d seen a person watching the house repeatedly for several hours in the weeks after an attempted break in the night of Feb 19th. Neither Mr. Doe, or his son, John, could positively identify the stalker or supposed burglar and when pressed could not be certain that the two events were carried out by the same person.

The case remains unresolved.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in love with the Magnus Archives, especially the smaller statements that leave you with this unresolved tension, so I tried my hand at something of the kind.  
> I may come up with some other stuff for this fandom to add to this, but I don't have anything at the moment to add.


End file.
